


three times coulson takes off Daisy's fieldsuit (and one time he puts it on)

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coulson giving Daisy pain killers (aka passive-aggressive anti-ShitzSimmons), Coulson's enormous crush on Daisy, Daisy is Coulson's hero, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Phil Coulson: human disaster, Scar porn, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 23:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: Does what it says on the tin.Parts two through four take place in some alternate season 4 with no LMDs, okay?





	three times coulson takes off Daisy's fieldsuit (and one time he puts it on)

1.

He follows her from the hangar, from the bustle of agents wrapping things up after the mission, as she walks towards her bedroom. Not like he meant to come to her bedroom, but he couldn't let her just walk away, so he follows, fiddling with the leather-covered thumb on his newest prosthetic.

“I'm fine,” she tells him as she stops at the door, but she doesn't sound annoyed, doesn't sound like she wishes to be left alone.

“I know.”

He does know. But he can see the way she grips her right arm, mouth twisted in pain, and he doesn't have it in him to turn away. (The memory of her crumbled in pain on that football field stabs through him, still.) It's something he's fought with himself about a lot — the last thing he wants is to treat her like she's not a competent field agent, even when they're functionally alone together. But she's so much more than a competent field agent and…

He shakes the thought away because that's what he does.

She steps into the room, turns, and practically invites him in, even though he's never been in her quarters on the Playground before.

He enters, tries not to look around too much. It's not dirty, not messy exactly. Lived in, though, and obviously left in a hurry this morning.

“Can I get you anything? Painkiller?”

Skye — Daisy — smiles at him.

“Cabinet,” she says, pointing at the small cupboard by her bed, so he goes, tries not to notice the sheets twisted at the foot of her bed, the tangle of necklaces on top of the cabinet, the box of condoms he pushes aside to grab the Advil.

It's…too personal for a minute, and he has to breathe through a flush crawling up his neck.

He hands over the bottle, watches her toss back three, chased with the remnants of a glass of water on her dresser.

When she goes to grasp at a gauntlet, he can see her pain more clearly, and he leans in to help.

“Here,” he whispers, voice too soft, and lifts her right arm to unbuckle and remove the piece.

She sits back on the bed while he works, and he swears he can feel her eyes on him as he fumbles a bit. His prosthetic feels wrong for this delicate task — too big, too clunky, too much a weapon and not enough a hand.

Fitz says it will get better.

“Fitz says they'll get better,” she says as he pulls the gauntlet back, and he startles for a moment at the idea that she's somehow read his mind. She's obviously talking about the device in his hand, so he nods.

“Are they helping, though?”

“Yeah,” she promises, as though it's really important that he believe her. “I might have overdone it a little, but they're helping.”

He nods once, doesn't say anything because chastising her for overdoing it would be the pot and the kettle, and he's not that big a hypocrite.

Instead, he starts removing the other gauntlet, leaves her wrists looking small and fragile hidden under the sleeves of her jacket. Like she's suddenly just Skye — Daisy — again, not this...superhero, this miracle. He's overwhelmed by a desire to touch her wrists, maybe to ensure that she's really okay or maybe just because he wants to. For a moment, he imagines pressing his lips to her hands and forerms, pressing her to her bed. It's not exactly unfamiliar, as far as urges go, but not usually so conscious or vivid or...possible. Suddenly it strikes him where he is and that he really, really shouldn't be here.

Coulson backs up a step, searches for some way to extract himself from the situation, but can only seem to stare at her, at Daisy, at this person he sometimes fears is slipping away.

“I'll meet you in your office for debrief, okay?” She gives him his way out.

He nods once and turns out the door, knows he needs to put some space between them — at least for a while.

  
  
2.

Daisy sort of collapses onto the ground once he helps her inside.

“Shit,” he breathes the word, struggling to grasp onto any sense of calm. He probably wouldn't be panicking so badly if they weren't stranded, just the two of them, no other help, no doctor, in this stupid safehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Or maybe, he thinks as he hears her gasp at a minor movement and sees the blood on the carpet, he'd be panicking no matter what.

Calm eludes him.

“It's fine.”

 _(Her_ calm is not helping.)

“It's not fine. You were shot. You're bleeding.”

“I've had worse.”

(Her calm is _really_ not helping.)

“Daisy.” It comes out almost a sob, mostly a whine.

He used to be better at this, he swears he did, but somewhere he lost his ability to be at all detached. With her, anyways.

“Take a breath, Coulson.”

He tries, and fuck he hates himself because she's been shot and somehow she's comforting him. That's what makes him able to finally suck in a breath and focus on her, not his own fear.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her, shakes his head as though shaking away his panic.

“It's not so bad having someone worry about me,” she jokes and manages a smile; he tries to smile back, but watches the tightness around her eyes and her lips.

Coulson runs a hand over her forehead, wishing he could soothe the pain he can see written there.

“There's a bottle of vodka. It's not good stuff, but it'll help,” he offers, and she nods, looks grateful for the almost-nothing he can offer her. He grabs it along with other supplies he can scrounge — a cloth, warm water, bandages, antibiotic cream. He hopes she doesn't need more.

When he hands over the vodka, she takes two big gulps, still too much gratitude in her eyes, and it hurts, this hollow sensation in his chest that got really familiar in the months she was gone.

“I've gotta get that jacket off,” he tells her, still struggling to hold onto some sense of calm.

Daisy nods, so he breathes in slowly and begins to undress her.

Her gauntlets are easy — it's the rest he's worried about, the blood-soaked fabric that will pull at her wound.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warns her, and she nods like she knows, like the pain of pulling bloody clothes away from a bullet wound is nothing. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then hands her the vodka, watches her take one more swallow before he grasps the zipper of her jacket and pulls it down, revealing a tight black cotton tank underneath. Her teeth are clenched against the way the movement jostles her, but otherwise she stays still and stoic, even as she helps him sit her up, even as she struggles out of the jacket. Once it's gone and she's down to the small black cotton shirt, she collapses on the floor for a moment and breathes.

It's strange how different she looks without the jacket — smaller and more vulnerable and just…Daisy.

“I'm not wearing anything under this,” she tells him, like she's giving fair warning, and he nods.

“I won’t look,” he offers because he’s not sure what else to say.

Daisy rolls her eyes.

“I know you won’t be _looking_. I just figured I’d warn you.”

“Right.” He swallows, suddenly a totally different kind of nervous about this even though that’s obviously stupid. But he's had thoughts, is the thing; thoughts about Daisy being naked, thoughts about her naked body under this suit, very specifically Daisy in this suit. Daisy out of this suit.

He swallows again and rolls up the cotton carefully, eyes locked on the skin he’s revealing, smeared with blood. Once he’s got most of her stomach exposed, she sucks in a harsh breath at the next careful pull of fabric, and he braces himself for more blood. (He’s not terrible with blood, but Daisy’s blood has always been a different beast.)

“It's okay,” she reassures him, and he hates that she can read him so well, hates that she feels the need to reassure him.

“That's my line,” he half-complains, earns a tiny smile before he rolls the shirt up and off,  tugging the extra layer of elastic of a built-in bra and ignoring the way his fingers brush the underside of her breasts. Instantly, his eyes zero in on the wound on her side, nowhere more dangerous than that, though he can see Daisy's arm rest across her breasts in his peripheral vision.

(He can't believe he thought this could be dangerous, not when Daisy is in pain, not when she needs help.)

Instead he looks to her injury, relieved to see that there's blood, yes, but... 

“It's not so bad,” he breathes.

“I told you.”

He shoots her a tiny glare, and then reaches to wet the cloth in warm water so he can more clearly see the gash in her side. As he cleans her up, though, his eyes drift — not to anywhere _dangerous,_ but across her stomach, across a range of scars. The two gunshots from Italy — from several lifetimes ago — are joined by two scarred gashes that seem to have come from a knife, and another obvious bullet wound.

She can tell that his eyes have drifted, apparently.

“Told you I've had worse.”

He nods, and his eyes dart up to hold her gaze, passing over her arm-covered breasts easily because even if he has thoughts about her, they're not what matter today.

(It's a relief, actually, to know that he can care for her like this, like he should, even with these thoughts and feelings that have been pressing in on him.)

“When did you get stabbed?”

“Watchdog,” she replies, offering a shrug of one perfect bare shoulder. “I didn't have anyone to play nurse then.”

He frowns, re-wets the cloth so he can keep washing blood from her skin.

“I'm okay,” she tells him, and her hand lands on his arm, which he knows means she's no longer covering her breasts.

He nods, but he can't look back up at her face, doesn't trust himself not to _look,_ not now that she's basically fine.

Instead he wipes her clean of blood, relieved that even her fresh gash seems to have stopped bleeding. Once he's bandaged her, he can't seem to stop touching her, though, can't seem to stop his fingers tracing over the battle scars on her stomach. He wants to kiss them, each of the scars, and it's not sexual. Or, it’s not _only_ sexual. It’s also comfort, but whether for him or for her, he’s not sure.

“I wish I could have helped you then,” he tells her as his index finger traces across the line of a knife blade, such a stupid thing to say. He wants to take it back, to reassure her that even if he hurt, he doesn't begrudge her the time she needed. But they're too close and he can't seem to keep himself in line. 

“You're a good nurse, Coulson,” she says instead, and her hand rests softly on his cheek so that his gaze turns back to meet hers.

He flushes — embarrassment and pleasure and arousal and too many things to name — as their eyes meet, Daisy half-naked and fully exposed underneath him. He's hit with the desire to kiss her, just his mouth softly over hers, another full-body flush that could overwhelm him.

He doesn't do it, though, can't repay her easy trust that way, and instead leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead, like allowing himself a too-small taste of her before he pulls back.

(If he thinks she looks disappointed about that, it's probably just his imagination.)

“Let me find you a shirt,” he offers, and she nods, lets her hand slide from his cheek.

  
  
  
3.

She follows him to his quarters from the hangar, and he wishes she wouldn't. He feels so raw, like every nerve is naked, and he's afraid of what he'll do.

“Coulson.” 

“I'm fine,” he says, except even he can tell he doesn't mean it.

“Bullshit.”

She doesn't wait for an invite, just marches into his bedroom behind him.

“They didn't hurt me,” he offers, something true.

“Then why are you making that face?”

He brings his right palm up to touch his nose, as though he'll be able to understand what she's saying.

“What face?”

“Usually it's the face you make when I get hurt.” He can't help but smile a little at that. “What happened? Please?”

He nods.

“You know they took me to get to you.”

Her eyes turn down.

“I'm sorry about that.” Her voice is a half whisper, and Coulson shakes his head because that's entirely not the point.

“You came anyways.” Almost an accusation.

“What's my other option? To leave you?” She says it like it's unimaginable, but he wishes she would, wishes she wouldn't risk herself for him.

“You shouldn't…”

Daisy glares at him — no longer worried about him, just angry — and grabs him by the front of his shirt. He's not ready for it when her mouth presses against his, nothing tender about it, all hard and bruising and _taking._ In a wave that leaves him lightheaded, all the blood in his body rushes away from his brain, like he's falling or floating or burning at her touch.

Coulson groans into her mouth, too overwhelmed to do anything but let himself be kissed, let his knees buckle underneath him, practically swooning in her arms. Daisy catches him, one hand still fisted in the front of his shirt, one on his back, her hips pressed to his. When her teeth press into his lower lip, he can feel his heartbeat there, and in his fingertips where they clutch at her shoulder, and his right knee where it's trapped between hers, and in his cock where it's nearly pulsing against the softness of her lower belly.

“God,” he gasps when she pulls back enough to breathe, and she seems suddenly shy.

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head, tongue too thick for words, and uses his hands on her shoulders to pull her back against him, like he could pull her inside of him.

“Daisy,” he manages her name as her lips slide over his again, a moan silenced by her tongue.

He's still clinging to her, not quite vertical on his own, and he probably likes it too much, feeling himself entirely at her mercy. Kissing her back is better, though — falling slowly into a perfect rhythm of lips and tongues as they clutch at each other.  

When she pulls back this time, she swallows, a look of wonder on her face.

“I didn't know if you'd be okay with this.”

He almost laughs.

“I am.”

“I noticed,” she says as her hips press against him, and he groans. “It seems like you usually...pull away.”

“Because I thought you wouldn't want it.”

She kisses him again, softer, slower.

“I do.”

He nods against her mouth, and then is shocked when she pushes him slightly backwards so he falls, seated, onto the bed, staring up at her. Coulson watches, mouth suddenly dry, as she starts fiddling with her right gauntlet.

Quickly, though, he stops her, hand on her arm.

“May I?”

Daisy smiles at him, soft and sweet, almost indulging.

“Yeah, Coulson, you may.”

He's careful as he pulls off the gauntlets, as he frees her arms, and he remembers doing this before and wanting to press his mouth there, to skin once mottled with bruises. So he does it now, kissing her fingers and her hands and her wrists over the sleeves of her suit.

She exhales, harsh and slow, and curves her fingers from where he's kissing them in order to brush across his lips and cup his cheek.

His head is still cradled in her palm when he reaches up to tug down the zip at the top of her jacket, revealing the familiar mesh edge of a tight cotton tank. He nuzzles her stomach as he starts to push it up, just enough to bare her almost-familiar map of scars, his mouth at the perfect height to kiss her gunshot wounds, to trace his tongue along the remnants of a blade’s edge.

“Do you remember that safehouse in South Dakota?” Her voice is quiet, not quite steady, her fingers stroking through his hair as he takes his time kissing her.

“Mmhmm,” he answers, a quiet hum against her skin as he slides his tongue to that wound on her side.

“I wanted you to kiss me so bad,” she says, like a guilty admission.

He pulls his mouth off of her to meet her eyes, looking almost straight up.

“I wanted to. I thought…” He shakes his head, maybe because there’s no point trying to explain what he thought, maybe because he’s not sure himself.

“I practically flashed you,” she says, pauses. “I should have just kissed you, huh?”

“Probably,” he admits with a sheepish smile, then takes the initiative to stand up so that he can kiss her properly as he slips her jacket off her shoulders, leaving her in just the tank.

She’s the one who melts against him this time, giving herself over to his fingers trailing up her spine, letting him explore the contours of her mouth and then kiss her neck and then her shoulders.

“Coulson,” she moans. “You’re too slow.”

“Just right,” he says, grinning at her while his fingers start to work up her tank top again. He holds his breath, not quite consciously, as he lifts it over her head, and then lets out a long, slow breath at the sight of her. He’s seen her before, some vague picture of her half naked on the carpet of that safehouse, but he hadn’t _looked_ , not really, so it takes him a minute to gather his wits.

She cups the back of his head when he bends down enough to kiss her breasts, soft lips along the upper and inner curves, tongue pressed to her nipples. He takes her direction and scrapes his teeth across her nipple, soft pressure that makes her moan and arch into his mouth.

Coulson is less slow as he thumbs open her pants, blindly pushing them down her hips with his teeth still softly closed around a nipple, but as she presses her pelvis against him, clearly desperate for more contact, he pulls back.

“Sit?” The word doesn’t come out as soft, as careful, as he means it, but she smiles easily and she turns them so she's seated on the bed and Coulson can kneel at her feet to tug off her boots.

He kisses the instep of her bare foot, grinning at the way she squirms on the bed, the way she smiles and looks suddenly light and easy, as though she's never known the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I could get used to this,” Daisy says, clearly joking, but Coulson nods. Because Daisy half naked on his bed?

“Me, too.” Too honest. Way too honest.

He tugs down her pants and black cotton briefs, leaves her suddenly naked on the bed, like that will draw attention away from his too-honest admission.  

She touches his cheek again, though, and draws his eyes up to meet hers when he might disappear into his own thoughts, his own doubts. Her lips part, like she's struggling for something to say, but the softness in her eyes, her smile, speaks volumes. He nods once, and then leans forward to press a kiss to the top of her thigh, urging her to part her legs.

He expects her to be a little shy about spreading her thighs (not that he's spent a lot of time imagining how she'd be), but she exhales and guides him easily, hand on the back of his head.

It's easy — he probably _did_ expect that, that their ability to communicate without words would work here, too (not that he's spent a lot of time imagining how they'd be). She's already wet, sensitive against his tongue, and she comes almost too quickly, thighs pressed tight around his ears, fingers digging through his short hair, tiny gasps that are barely audible. He'd like to keep going, but Daisy pulls him back, a slow, warm smile across her lips.

“I always knew you'd be good at that,” she tells him, like she _has_ thought about it, about how they'd be together. It makes him hot — his cheeks and the back of his neck and his lower back and his cock, hard and pressing into his jeans.

For the first time, he thinks more about his own body than hers.

“Take off your clothes,” Daisy says, more an order than a suggestion, and if he has a moment where he worries about his own scars, it passes quickly enough as his fingers race down his shirt buttons, as he stands up to toe out of his shoes and drop his jeans. He's too eager, probably embarrassing, but Daisy is smiling at him, so it doesn't seem to matter much.

She rolls them once he's joined her on the bed, presses him onto his back and climbs on top of him to make her own careful mapping of his body. She starts with his hand, soft kisses along his arm and across the prosthetic. Her lips press into the scar over his heart — careful as though it's delicate, as though she's afraid to hurt him — and then move across his chest, seeking every tiny mark, every scar he's collected in his life.

She passes over his groin, instead moves to his legs, to press her forehead against the scar from the break last year, pauses there for too long.

“It wasn't your fault,” he says because it's true and because he's pretty sure she needs to hear it. She nods once, more acknowledging that she's heard than that she agrees, and he reaches down to stroke his right hand through her hair.

The somber moment changes quickly as she begins to trail kisses up his inner thighs, soft and careful and coaxing his legs apart. By the time she's moved up the bed enough to run her nose up his cock, he's already moaning almost uncontrollably.

“Do you have condoms?” The question comes as she pulls him into her mouth, all wetness and heat and suction, and he can't answer, can't do anything but groan until his lungs are empty, until he's almost wheezing for breath.

“Drawer,” he manages, pointing to his nightstand, to the small box of condoms that's hopefully not expired.

She rises on her knees and leans over him to get to the drawer, giving him access to touch her, to run his hands up her back, to cup her breasts, to squeeze her butt. When she sits back, she grasps his erection tightly and rolls the condom down, then pauses, looks almost nervous.

“You're okay with this, right?”

He almost laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling through the word, “Yeah, I'm really okay with this.”

He watches her swallow.

“I don't have the best luck with labeling things, you know? But this is…something big, right?”

He reaches his right hand up to cup her cheek.

“Really big,” he agrees, wholeheartedly. As though anything with Daisy could be something less.

She leans forward to kiss him, gentle and sweet at first, but growing more heated.

“Never say I shouldn't save you,” she whispers — demands — against his lips.

“You're more important than I am,” he says, part argument.

“You're important _to me_.”

He wishes it didn't sound so good, being important to Daisy, being the person Daisy will save. It must show in his face because she sits back on his cock, grinds down against him without letting him push inside, and sort of smirks.

“You like the idea of being saved.” It's maybe part accusation, but mostly she sounds kind of delighted.

He can feel himself blush.

“You're my hero,” he admits, embarrassed but honest, unable to stop a grin at the way she smiles, almost glows.

She shifts slightly, rubs against him enough to begin letting him push up inside her, and leans down to grab his wrists and press his hands into the mattress by his head. He can't help but love it — being underneath her, inside her, surrounded by her.

“Okay?”

“Yes.” It's part gasp, part hiss, and he lifts his hips to push up into her, could come apart at the way she groans when he's all the way inside.

She's gentle at first, focused on soft, slow movements of her hips, like she's trying to figure out what feels good. When she finds it, there's a perfect little noise, a choked moan or a hitched breath, the best sound he's ever heard. Between the sounds she makes and the way she feels and the visual of her body moving over him, it's a struggle to hold on for her, but he manages — barely.

Daisy's hitched breaths come closer together, and then she's silent, head thrown back as she comes, lets him run his hands up her body as he follows. It's ecstasy — the orgasm and the closeness and the fact that it's _Daisy._

After, she collapses against him, her face pressed to his neck, and he barely has the presence of mind to roll over and dispose of the condom before he does the same, as though he could burrow into her or pull her inside himself. It's like he can't get close enough, and he can't believe he ever thought they needed distance.

  
  
  
+1

He wakes up the next morning when she rolls away from him. Only after he notices the lack of warmth and the movement does he notice the sound of her phone vibrating from in her pants, strewn back on the floor.

She hangs over the edge for a minute, rummaging through her clothes.

“Mack needs me,” she whispers when she's back on the mattress, and he nods, feeling a little off balance without her pressed against him.

“Mission?”

“Sounds like,” she agrees.

He sits up a little to look at her, naked in his bed with the sheets tangled up around her waist. His arousal hits like a full-body flush, and he slides to press his lips against her neck and shoulders and breasts.

“Coulson,” she moans, maybe whines. “There's no time.”

“Time for _you_ ,” he offers, tongue tracing around her nipple, and he can feel her smile through the gentle suction he applies, through the way her hand combs through his hair.

“Are you always so generous?” Her voice is teasing, but he nods adamantly, kisses down her stomach, following the gentle press of her hand. He's just barely brushed his chin against the rough patch of hair between her legs when she groans and tugs him up.

“After?”

He nods, still adamant, and kisses her eagerly.

“I'll be here,” he offers, and Daisy smiles at him, fingers soft on his cheek. 

“I thought you'd be...weird,” she confesses, looking guilty.

“Weird?” He half-laughs, maybe because he understands too well what she was scared of.

“I thought you'd be freaked out.” Something in her face says that she's sorry she said it, like she's given him ideas. He gets it, but shakes his head.

“You want this,” he says like it explains everything because obviously, _obviously_ it does.

“I want _you_ ,” she answers, maybe corrects him, and he buries his face against her neck for a moment, like if he looks at her, she'll disappear. He wants to tell her he loves her, but he bites it back, pretty sure it's coming on too strong after one night together. But then, it's been such a long time that he’s loved her — since before she was a superhero, since before she could quake in doors to come rescue him, since before he even knew how to name it, the everything he feels for her.

When she finally pulls away, rolling to the edge of the bed to get dressed, it's with obvious reluctance.

He watches with too much interest as she pulls on her pair of black briefs and the tank, only slightly worn from the previous day. When she grabs her pants, he stops her, crawls to the edge of the bed.

“May I?”

Daisy laughs and hands over the pants, then just watches him as he kneels down at her feet, letting her step in.

He's slow pulling them up, letting his hands trace the muscles up her calves and thighs because he can, because she’s perfectly formed, because there’s something intimate and beautiful about touching her like this, touching her as she transforms from Daisy to Quake. Her hand rests on his head for balance, fingernails occasionally playing through his hair.

He presses a kiss to her belly over the tank as he buttons her pants, and then helps her into her boots, hands caressing up and down her calves. When he stands to help her into the jacket, he turns her so he can slide his lips along the back of her neck and her shoulders. She sighs and leans into him, lets him take his time.

For the gauntlets, he sits on the bed and closes each one around a wrist, laying soft kisses on her wrists and her palms and each of her fingers.

It's only when she's fully dressed, fully Quake, fully a superhero (his superhero), that he remembers his own nakedness. He’s fully exposed to her, and his erection grows from half-hard to fully hard as he takes her in, Daisy (his hero). She clearly notices, too, since she leans down to kiss him where he sits on the bed and her hand closes around his cock, gives him two short, soft tugs that are almost too much, that leave him moaning and panting against her lips.

It's unexpected and more than a little wonderful when she drops down between his legs, her tongue and then her lips around his cock.

“Daisy,” he groans helplessly, manages to comb his fingers through her hair softly as she works her mouth over him — sweet and gentle and insistent and too much to handle. He comes quickly, like fizzing up his spine, and Daisy works him through it, taking care of him in a way he can hardly fathom.

Coulson is still catching his breath when she leans up to kiss him, her tongue and the taste of himself in his mouth.

“I'll be back soon,” she promises, and he nods, but keeps kissing her, keeps letting himself be kissed.

When she stands up, he hugs her to himself, face pressed to her stomach, to the rough material of her jacket. He kisses her where he knows her scars are, lips soft over her fieldsuit.

“Be safe,” he requests, maybe orders, even if he no longer has that authority, and she smiles.

“I will.”

 


End file.
